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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29149512">Marian</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowrogue/pseuds/shadowrogue'>shadowrogue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Drunken Kissing, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), POV Varric Tethras, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss, Sexual Content</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:07:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,113</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29149512</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowrogue/pseuds/shadowrogue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke doesn't return from The Fade. Varric's world as he knows it shatters.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female Hawke/Varric Tethras</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Marian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Where's Hawke?"</p><p>The words fall from his lips nervously as he skims the courtyard of the Adamant fortress. The crackle of popping embers are heavy in the air, the destruction from the battle a trip-hazard as bruised Grey Wardens limp closer to the spot where Lavellan has emerged, green mist still rolling off her skin. Stroud's eyes avoid his, clouded over with guilt, and Varric's fists clench at his sides, the leather of his gloves pulling taunt as he tries to still the shake of his hands.</p><p>Memories flood him in waves, rising like water over his head. He feels like he's suffocating as he pictures bright blue eyes wide with terror as a rift seals shut, entrapping Hawke in darkness...utterly alone.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>. She's never done too hot when left alone.</p><p>He recalls the night her mother died. The way she'd slammed her door in his face so she could fall apart in private. The sound of destruction coming from the other side. The eerie silence that'd followed.</p>
<hr/><p><em>He picks the lock, deft fingers prying at it with his tools until he hears a rather satisfying </em>click<em>. It swings open, yet only darkness greets him. He ignores the way the entryway furniture has been overturned, a porcelain vase shattered into a thousand pieces, char from the hearth blown in every direction. It's chaos, the way only a mage can manage. He makes his way towards the steps, up to Hawke's room without any hesitation.</em></p><p>
  <em>She's sitting on her bed when he enters, knees pulled to her chest, a river of tears streaming down her face. He stands there like a dumbass for the longest time, not knowing what to say, what to do. Only knowing that she's hurting, and for some reason seeing her in pain makes him wither inside.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eventually she looks up; eyes pleading, a silent request. He goes to her without a second thought, crossbow tossed aside, pulling her into his arms, into a safe place where she isn't an orphan; an apostate; The Champion. Where she only has to be Marian, and can grieve in peace for all she has lost.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He wakes up dazed the next morning, momentarily confused by his surroundings. The sun streaks in through Hawke's curtains, her hair shimmering in its golden light like jet black feathers on a raven's wing. Her lean, toned arms are wrapped around his waist, her chin resting on his shoulder. She smells like Antivan roses, from the soap she uses, yet also curls of smoke from the night before. It's an oddly intoxicating combination; floral and firey; sweet innocence intertwined with the salt of sin.</em>
</p><p><em>It should feel awkward, waking up to some giantess draped all over him. What with her too-long limbs entangled with his own. But instead he finds himself lying there in utter silence, not daring to move so much as a single muscle, relishing in her touch like some opportunistic freak because </em>damn<em> - she feels good. Waking up in her embrace is warm. It's soft. Which he finds peculiar, because he's never thought to put 'Hawke' and 'soft' in the same sentence. But it turns out she is, and it's fucking divine.</em></p><p>
  <em>He quickly discovers her scent is more than enough to make him dizzy, that her breath on his neck sends shivers trailing down his spine. He swallows hard and glances down at the bare, cream-colored leg slung over his own. He imagines without meaning to what it would feel like to touch it. To caress her. To slide his palms up her thighs, higher and higher until he's tossing the both of them over his shoulders.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's painfully hard then. Embarrassingly so. Nope. Not good. Sick, sick, sick. He clears his throat, hands kept close to his chest and far, far away from that damned, naked skin of hers. Doesn't she own a longer robe? Thankfully she won't be able to read his mind when she awakens. He likes his teeth, and doesn't particularly want them socked from his mouth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Uh, Hawke-"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She says his name in response. In desperation, as if terrified and lost in some sort of nightmare. It clenches at his heart, the way she grips the lapels of his jacket in fistfuls, tugging him closer. The air around them suddenly begins to hum quite pleasantly, the sound of the birds outside muffled into silence.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He recognizes her barrier. It's as familiar a magic to him as Blondie's healing aura. But not like this. Not intimately, away from the blow of incoming swords and the prying eyes of their friends. Not simply because she wants to - apparently even in her darkest dreams - protect and keep him safe.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His crossbow is sitting on her desk, and boy oh boy is the old girl glaring daggers at him, flashes of another, gentler face appearing before his eyes. Of Bianca, in their youth, gazing up at him, empty promises for the future spoken softly from her lips in the dead of night.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Bianca is married, a small voice in the back of his head reminds him dryly, and he only ever sees her now in stolen, fleeting moments; ones in which he knows she isn't even fully present - at least not upstairs. That woman will forever be locked away inside her own clever mind, always planning her next move, carefully covering the tracks of their affair as delicately as she crafts her weapons. He's her dirty little secret, never to be seen with her in public...lest her family send another batch of assassins his way.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Unlike Hawke, who's never had any reservations when it comes to him. Who always calls his name loudly, all the way from across The Hanged Man, waving her hand to get his attention, her smile enchanted. Hawke, who winks at him as she pulls an ace from her sleeve and Rivaini groans, having to buy their next round.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hawke, who uses her magic to light the lanterns in his room while he writes, sitting quietly in the corner with her legs tucked up underneath her, reading his latest draft before its deadline to make sure it's absolutely perfect, which she always insists it is.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hawke, on the cliffside of the Wounded Coast, armor gleaming, leather-clad legs spread in a warrior's stance as she shifts in front of him each and every time he has to reload, shielding him with walls of fire and ice as he clicks his bolts into place.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hawke, down in the Deep Roads, squeezing his hand in reassurance after Bartrand tries to bury them alive, centering him through his anger, grounding him as they escape rich as kings, bags loaded up with enough treasure to choke a dragon. She finds a ring in her share she thinks would look good on him. He never takes it off. Later she even helps to save his moronic brother from death, simply because she silently understands that as much as Varric hates the bastard, he's still family.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hawke, with flames dancing on the tips of her fingers as she plans their next adventure, bent over a map.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hawke...who has always cared. So deeply she gets hurt, time and time again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hawke's playful touch.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hawke's unchecked laughter.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hawke's vibrant eyes, glowing in the dark like beacons to guide him home whenever he feels lost.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She flirts with him, unapologetically, sometimes purposefully shaking her ass as she walks, knowing he's standing right behind her. She drags him all over Kirkwall with that distracting little strut of hers, to what he sometimes suspects are purposefully the shittest places she can think of, just for fun.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yet he's all too happy to follow her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anywhere.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Everywhere.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Always.</em>
</p><p><em>Andraste's tits - he's in love, isn't he? With fucking </em>Hawke<em> of all people. Terrifying, renegade, smuggler Hawke - who he's seen flatten a man's skull with just her mind, never even touching him as a wave of pure force crushes him into the cavernous floor of her mine like paste.</em></p><p>
  <em>But also with Marian, too. Sweet Marian, who hides her sorrows behind sharp bits of wit, but who's never fooled him - even once - with that one-dimensional facade of hers. No, she's so much more than the comedic killer everyone makes her out to be. She's also the woman who quietly drops the gold they make on their outings into the little box of donations meant for Ferelden's refugees. The one who patiently taught Broody to read and treats Daisy with kindness, even though blood magic is against everything she stands for.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The barrier melts away, snapping into nothing like a band pulled taunt until it suddenly breaks. She must be waking up. Scratch that - she's already awake, and shoving him hard as she scrambles to the very edge of the bed, straightening her clothes in embarrassment. He pretends to be awoken by her movements, rolling over in a faux state of perplexity. Might as well save them both a little bit of dignity.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Might as well pretend her touch didn't linger, if only for a second.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Best not to read into that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Although it's hard to ignore, because her face is beet red when their eyes meet, from her neck all the way up to the rounded shell of her ear. Son of a nug - is his proximity enough to make the glorified Champion of the city blush like a sister of the Chantry? He doesn't point it out. Why not? Because once again, he likes his teeth set firmly in his skull. On any other day, perhaps he'd test the limits of her patience with his antics. But today she's waking up to a difficult dawn and her eyes are swollen; her skin's pale; her cheeks are hollow.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her mother's dead.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Every other thought melts away. He reaches out to cradle her face in his palm, only to stop short, clapping his hand down on her shoulder instead. He squeezes it, the way she would for him, nods once, then climbs out of bed and leaves her to get situated as he helps Orana tidy up what's left of the sitting room.</em>
</p><p><em>Hawke doesn't dress to go out. Instead she appears at the top of the staircase in a loose, flowing blouse and brushed black leggings that leave her feet completely bare. He wonders in the back of his mind if those pants were a gift from Fenris. They look like the ones he wears. Shit, they aren't </em>his<em>, are they?</em></p><p><em>He tastes his first hint of jealousy somewhere in the back of his throat, spurned on by thought of their warrior companion </em>here<em>, in this house, with Hawke...alone. He's instantly bitter, which is childish and completely uncalled for. Hawke is her own woman. She can do as she pleases. He has no claim on her.</em></p><p>
  <em>Besides - him, jealous? That's a laugh.</em>
</p><p><em>Bianca is </em>married<em>. He reminds himself that once more, as if to prove something. His paramour - she fucks another man. Sleeps in his bed. Will probably bare his children. Yet Varric's never cared about any of that. He takes whatever scraps she's willing to throw his way. So why does the very thought of Fenris brushing aside Hawke's bangs with that gauntlet-covered hand of his leave Varric feeling positivity </em>gutted<em>?</em></p><p>
  <em>He realizes it's because he never truly loved Bianca. Not in the way he does Hawke. He idolizes the inventor, the would-be Surface Paragon. Molds her into this perfect, flawless fantasy. Has built her up in his mind over the years, only to be disappointed every time she leaves him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Varric doesn't leave Hawke. He stays close to her side all week without hovering, making sure she's alright. Brings her food, as well as that disgusting Orlesian wine she likes. Spars with her in her gardens, even though they're both ranged fighters and absolute shit at close combat. In the evenings they play cards, simple games that don't require heavy conversation. Sometimes he writes while she reads. Other times they swap stories aloud, animated in their gestures, just like old times. She eventually opens up about Bethany, whom he never got the chance to meet, and he speaks of his parents, who died long before he was old enough to appreciate all they'd sacrificed in order to give him and his brother a halfway decent life.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mourning, it turns out, hurts less with a friend.</em>
</p><p><em>Hawke heals. Slowly, over the span of a month. During the third week she allows him to haul her out to The Wounded Coast to cull a few bandits. He's proud as the Maker watching Andraste as she pounds them into the dust. She in turn carts him along to see Aveline, then the Viscount, finally answering the many summons that had been piling up on her desk. </em> <em>As she finishes her final correspondence that evening he sends one his own, ending a farce of a dalliance that had long since run its course.</em></p><p>
  <em>Their first night back at The Hanged Man with their entire motley crew in tow proves to be as wondrous as it is disastrous. They all drink far too much, in celebration of nothing in particular. Isabella breaks a chair. Anders flirts shamelessly with the barkeep, just to get a rise out of him. Fenris and Merrill get into a heated debate about something that sounds a lot like...cinnamon? Nah. He can't be hearing that right. The sins of men? Singing hens? No, chickens don't sing. That would be silly. But then again, Thedas is infamous for it's weird-ass shit.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hawke appears at his side around midnight, crouching down on her haunches. She's slightly breathless from laughter, her cheeks pink, eyes sparkling with delight.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Praise the Ancestors - it's good to see her so full of mirth again. He'd missed that cute little smile of hers. The upturned quirk in the corner of her lips would look ridiculous on anyone else, but on her it's positively endearing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Opps, he's staring.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Thanks for dragging my sorry ass out of the house," she says warmly, placing a hand on his upper back. "I think I needed this. I'm finally starting to feel like - well, me again."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He shrugs, reaching for his glass.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Aww, come on. Don't go getting all mushy on me now, beautiful."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Out of the corner of his eye he watches her arch a single eyebrow.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Beautiful, huh? Just how much have you had to drink, Serah Tethras? Shameless dwarf. You best mind your manners in front of Bianca."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She jabs her thumb towards his crossbow, which is leaning up against the wall.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Fuck Bianca," he says firmly, setting down his mug. Did he really just say those words? Why isn't he shutting up? "She has nothing on you, Marian."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hawke looks dumbfounded at the use of her given name, and he feels like a total idiot for using it. But he's never said it out loud, and wanted so badly to taste the way it sounded. Her hand tenses, but doesn't fall away (and surprisingly doesn't smack him upside the head). Instead it slides upwards, baffling him as she cups his cheek.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's not quite sure what's happening. She's drunk as all get out - he knows that much. And he's positively wasted - typical for a Tuesday.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As such, it takes him a while to register the fact that she's gazing down at him with affection. Her lashes grow damp, and all of a sudden her damned bleeding heart is fully bared to him, open on her sleeve.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Varric…"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's the way she says his name that does it for him. Breathy, like she's choking on it. His willpower crumbles into dust.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fuck, he wants her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He loves her so damn much.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Marian-"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He says it again, firmer, damn near sighing the syllables as he reaches for her, clumsy fingers gripping the front strap of her staff's holster. He turns in his chair and pulls her down into his lap, where her thick thighs straddle either side of his hips. There's a split-second of hesitation then. A breath of a moment in which they both give the other a clear out, a chance to crack a joke and brush things off. But neither party takes it. Instead Marian places her hands on either side of his face and kisses him fiercely, so hard that the chair creaks, so passionately that an utterly obscene noise arises in the back of his throat. He fists his fingers into her hair.</em>
</p><p><em>He's idly aware of the fact that Isabella is whistling somewhere in the foreground. But he pays the voyeuristic pirate little to no mind. Because how can he focus on anything else when Marian is </em>kissing<em> him, when her tongue is flicking open his mouth and her hands are wandering down the cut of his neckline.</em></p><p>
  <em>It's the glass of water thrown at them by the exasperated barkeep that does the trick though. Something shouted along the lines of: "Oi! You have a room - use it!" Dripping wet, Hawke laughs and climbs off of him, shooting an obscene gesture towards the bar before taking his hand and pulling him after her. He grabs Bianca as she reaches for her staff, never letting go of her even once as they bound up the stairs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They trade a single kiss at the very top while he's standing three steps above her. It doesn't last long though. He enjoys being taller than her for all of two seconds before she's shoving him over the threshold with an impatient huff.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her height proves instantly frustrating on even ground. He kicks the door shut behind them, wanting nothing more than to grab her by the waist and shove her up against it like one of the hardass heros in his books. To drive her senseless. Too bad he's eye-level with her tits and nowhere near where he needs to be.</em>
</p><p><em>On second thought, they're great tits. He doesn't mind that part so much. And that </em>ass<em>. Maker's breath. He drunkenly slaps it, and what a damn fine echo it makes as the sound reverberates off his walls.</em></p><p>
  <em>"Don't make me come up there," he warns in a gravelly voice.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She's giggling ever so coyly then - okay, that's new - dropping various bits and pieces of armor to the floor as she saunters over to his bed in a way he assumes is meant to look suggestive, but instead reminds him of a baby halla learning how to walk over tree roots. </em>
</p><p><em>He shrugs off his coat, tugging at her boots and tossing them aside before crawling overtop of her. </em> <em>Which is, with her being human, quite the experience.</em></p><p><em>Holy Mother - there's just so </em>much<em> of her. He finally runs both hands up those damned, never-ending legs of hers, capturing her mouth once more.</em></p><p><em>He can </em>feel<em> her smile, he notes. The shape of it. Hawke is smiling and </em>he's<em> the reason. He's smiling and </em>Hawke<em> is the reason. It's overdue by years and everything he's ever wanted, even though learning the way they move together is confusing, if not a bit awkward.</em></p><p>
  <em>It's not sex he's after. Nah, not tonight. He's far too intoxicated for that. Probably couldn't get it up even if he tried, which would be a terrible first impression. Besides, who knows what she'd want sober? He has to respect that. So instead he simply continues kissing her, groaning as she bites down on his lower lip, slowly discarding layer after layer until he can feel the luscious curves of her body through the thin cotton fabric of her tunic and those velvety leggings she seems so fond of.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He isn't sure what hour of night it is when he finds her laying across his bare chest, her hand pressed over his heart, her barrier once more coating the two of them as she grins up at him sleepily, oblivious she's even doing it. He smiles softly down at her, running a hand over her hair, feeling an odd sense of completion as she closes her eyes and settles into the crook of his shoulder.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Maybe it goes without saying, but...I love you."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He says it so quietly, barely a whisper, testing the words the way one tests ice before stepping on it. He thought it would be difficult to admit aloud, but it isn't. It comes out naturally, as easy as breathing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He thinks for a moment she's already asleep. But then he feels her stiffen, and for a split second he worries he's gone and fucked everything up. Shit - does she not feel the same way? It's quite possible. He's a writer, after all, and writers romanticize the stupidest shit.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He suddenly feels little drops of moisture strike his skin, feels her nails rake his chest as she curls her hand inward, trembling.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Why the tears?" he asks quietly.</em>
</p><p><em>"Loving me - it's a curse." </em> <em>He recognizes the hopeless, deadpan tone in her voice. "Everyone who's ever dared to get close to me...they die."</em></p><p><em>He quickly </em> <em>forces a chuckle as he attempts to lighten the mood.</em></p><p>
  <em>"Yeah? Well, not me. I'm not going anywhere, princess."</em>
</p><p><em>She breathes a sigh of relief. </em> <em>"Swear?"</em></p><p>
  <em>"A little too often for most people's taste." He stares down at the ring she gave him, so long ago now, then presses a kiss to the top of her hair. "But yes, I swear. You're stuck with me 'til the very end. Like it or not."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She turns in his embrace, stretches up, kisses him deeply. Presses him into the mattress as she rocks her hips against his, such sweet torture. Come morning, he vows, when he can finally string together two coherent thoughts, he's going to do just the same to her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I've always loved you."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's the words he falls asleep to, spoken quietly in his ear. And Marian's is the face he wakes up to, once more in sunlight, only facing him this time, vibrant eyes shimmering with contentment.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You watching me sleep?" he mumbles, pulling her in closer. "Creep."</em>
</p><p><em>"I'm just trying to figure out how I ended up in your bed is all," she says with a shrug, eyeing him wickedly. She runs a hand down his chest, fingertips traveling through coarse hair. "Did something happen between us last night? Did Varric Tethras finally admit he's </em>madly<em> in love with me?"</em></p><p>
  <em>"Apologies," he says with a teasing grin, pushing his knee up between her legs, "Were you waiting on that confession long?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Only years," she admits, her voice dripping with longing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He reaches out, dares to toy with the hem of her top. He slowly lifts it, giving her time to say no. But instead he finds her gaze hungry, her breathing shallow, eyes dilated.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Guess we have a lot of missed time to make up for," he says, tossing the shirt aside. He rolls her beneath him, roughened palm kneading at her breast. She croons under his touch as his other hand slides downward, over her navel and still further south until she's arching up to meet his fingers with a tiny gasp. "I'll try my best to atone for that."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They kiss. They fuck. They sleep it off. They start again. It's an endless cycle. They finally emerge from his room around sunset, hand-in-hand, just as they'd left.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And life? Well, for one single day it's perfect. There's no pain. No loss. No tomorrow to worry about.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Simply the start of something new.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He moves in with her soon after that, indefinitely warming her bed, and together they play at the many, many fruitful games of domesticity; sitting together for meals, taking the Mabari out for walks...washing the spider guts from each other's hair.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You know, couple shit.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But all good things must come to an end, and before they know it ash is clouding the sky and Kirkwall has fallen to the likes of division and Vengeance.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And Marian? Well, she's a Maker-damned apostate. That being the case, they know right away she's in danger of the peoples' misplaced repercussions.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So she runs. What else can she do? With tears in her eyes she flees to the countryside. He glances back only once at his city, his home, at all he's ever known. Then to Hawke, who holds out her bloodied hand.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He takes it. He follows her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Everywhere.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anywhere.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Always.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>No one is saying anything. The silence drags on for the longest second of Varric's life. His throat closes up as Lavellan finally looks down at him with sympathy, in pity. He eyes her with daggers in return, his heart hardened, the ring on his left hand heavier than all the weight of the world.</p><p>"<em>Where's</em> Marian?"</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Kudos/Comments appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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